Too Close
by Whyte Star
Summary: Doctor McCoy is covered in blood, but none of it is his. “Murder? Jim might have a short fuse, but he isn't an idiot." Gratuitous amounts of hurt Jim!
1. Chapter I

This is based on an absolutely wonderful piece of artwork by **seiko_assasin** on deviantART, called _Too Close Jimmy Boy._ You can find a link to it in my profile. I must give a million thanks to her for allowing me to use the artwork as inspiration, and, of course, I am dedicating this fic to her!

Beguile is the best beta a girl could ask for.

Enjoy!

**TOO CLOSE**

**CHAPTER I**

"What the _hell_ did you do this time, Jim?"

It is not that it is _surprising_ to find James T. Kirk bleeding. If that were the case, Leonard McCoy would have lost his sanity years ago when he first made acquaintance with the young man and his propensity for physical trauma. Nor is is unusual to find _Captain_ James T. Kirk bleeding, for sending the young man into outer space only thrust him into more inevitable stories where his blood serves as punctuation.

So when the captain emerges from the shuttlecraft bleeding from a wound on his arm and walking with a hitch in his step, McCoy hides his accustomed concern with a guise of annoyance.

But there is a certain glaze to the captain's normally vibrant eyes and telltale strain in the set of his jaw that speak volumes to McCoy. They tell him that the kid is obviously hiding more injury than he is showing outright.

"Not now, Bones," Kirk snaps, holding up a hand to push McCoy away as the doctor steps forward with his tricorder.

"Shut up," McCoy fires back, his eyes fixed on the scanner to avoid Kirk's petulant expression.

He knows better than to try and pry the answers from the captain, but it does not take a medical degree to tell him that, in the Jim Kirk book of captaincy, 'diplomatic endeavor' usually translates to 'see how long it takes before it all goes to shit and the alien kicks his ass.'

The only outward injury McCoy can detect is the vicious wound on Kirk's right arm. The majority of the sleeve of his uniform is missing, tapering in a ragged edge, and a primitive bandage, obviously assembled in haste, encircles his arm from below the elbow to his bicep. Its purpose is aesthetic at best, however, as it is already stained dark with blood, and Kirk has the limb curled to his abdomen awkwardly.

"You must've really pissed them off," McCoy snaps, unable to contain his sardonic tone.

"What can I say. I'm a fighter," Kirk hesitates as his breath hitches, "not a diplomat."

"You're thick-headed is what you are."

Kirk makes an attempt to move away and McCoy shoulders him back into position. "Stop it."

"Bones, they're going to _attack_ us."

McCoy's eyes flick up to meet the captain's, though he manages to keep his expression neutral only through a steeled nerve. His gut goes cold, and the lines on the captain's face more than detail the severity of the situation, but McCoy knows his job more than he cares about Kirk's at the moment.

"Your arm is about to fall off," he adds when Kirk threatens him with narrowed eyes, "Spock can handle this, Jim."

The sounds of a red alert reverberate throughout the ship, and the _Enterprise _trembles beneath their feet as if from a large and distant sound.

Kirk sidesteps, his expression dark and serious. "Bones, let me get to the bridge, and that's an order."

"Let me take a look at your arm, and _that's _an order." McCoy replaces his tricorder and stands with his arms akimbo. "I've got that authority, remember. Don't make me use it."

Kirk shoulders his way past McCoy and makes an attempt at a dignified escape, but injury has made his knees week and his gait unsteady. McCoy sidles next to him, supporting him on his good arm just as the younger man begins his unfortunate descent to the floor. Kirk hangs his head with a curse.

"Jim . . ."

"Walk with me, Bones."

"Dammit, Jim!" McCoy hisses.

"No, Bones. I'm not losing her." He motions with his free arm to the empty space around them, to the walls of the _Enterprise._ "You come with me, or I go without you."

McCoy knows there is no arguing with Jim when he is like this, short of stabbing a sedative into his neck. The red alert blares on, a constant tempo in time with his beating heart, and the ship trembles again. The scream of twisting metal echoes from a distant corridor, and McCoy forces his attention to stay focused on the captain.

"Fine."

The journey from the shuttle dock to the bridge will take considerable time, and time is something that the _Enterprise_ and her captain simply do not have.

Kirk tries to take the lead while McCoy tries to hold him back, two opposing forces that will never be in equilibrium. Their trek through the halls, through the organized chaos of a ship in red alert, is slow and laborious for the intermittent trembling of the vessel beneath their feet. Every injury to the _Enterprise_ seems to drag her captain down further, and he curses between his teeth at the sound of every distant explosion.

They have yet to reach the halfway point when the _Enterprise_ lurches as if in her death throes, and the sickening sounds of destruction rampage through their hall as the ship begins to break apart. Every light along the corridor explodes in unison, and the hallway is bathed in pristine white that fades into an inky semi-darkness. The floor seems to drop several inches with a force that rattles McCoy's teeth, and he loses his footing. The captain, already unsteady beside him, carries away from him with a groan of surprise, the murmur of a sentence dying on his lips.

McCoy will never forget that agonizing feeling as Jim slips from between his fingers.

He has a very distinct memory from medical school, of a night of childish hilarity when he helped to egg a house. Were it not for the mysterious ways of human recollection, the thought would have no purpose in his mind. The sound of the projectiles as they expelled their contents when their fragile exteriors could no longer support them echoes as a dull and liquid-like sound in his ears.

It is the same sound he hears as inertia slams Jim's head against the wall.

McCoy can detect a plume of blood blossoming across the darkened surface before the force of the lurching ship throws him to his knees. Jim falls without a sound, and the ceiling collapses around him as everything belches sparks and oily smoke. McCoy screams something, but a close explosion down the hall steals his words and throws them into the chaos.

It is amazing how, even after thousands of years, the human race is still unable to decipher the secrets of adrenaline. Of how a simple hormone, hearkening back through millennia into the dark and clouded origins of human history, can drive the body beyond the limits of normal biological endurance. Of course, the chemical pathways are well documented, but the fact that Leonard McCoy can cross a debris-riddled hallway in three great steps and lift a slab of heavy metal off the body of his captain before his brain can even register that he is moving is a testament to the mysteries of the human body that three thousand years of science has yet to understand.

He grapples the debris with both hands and lifts it, throwing it aside as if it were weightless. His muscles burn with a pain he can not feel, because there is a more powerful agony raging in his chest, writhing there like a living entity. It has been years since anyone, _anything,_ has affected him more than James Tiberius Kirk, and not since he took his wedding vows has he felt so much fidelity for one person. That oath ended in tragedy. He is determined to make sure that this one does not.

Kirk is curled in the corner where the wall meets the floor, his injured arm jammed beneath him and the remainder of his limbs twisted in a macabre way that, for a moment, does not seem physically possible. He looks broken, a disillusioned impression of how a body should appear. He groans and attempts to force himself upright, but it seems that his brain is cut off from his body. His limbs rattle uselessly under his weight and he plummets, utterly still, to the floor again.

McCoy drops to his knees beside Kirk, a hand on the younger man's back, and bellows his name.

The space around them tilts violently as another impact threatens to send the ship rolling. McCoy throws out one arm against the bloodied surface of the wall to keep himself from collapsing, but his hand can not find purchase on the slick area, and he collides unceremoniously with Kirk in a conjoined heap on the floor. Wire and tubing and remnants of the ship's innards rain down on them, and McCoy spits foul pieces of metallic debris from his mouth as he forces himself to a sitting position. He can feel something hot and sticky against his face and dares to bring his hand to it—it is blood, _Jim's blood,_ running down his cheek.

It takes the sound of Kirk coughing to jar McCoy from his momentary paralysis. The body at his side makes a dissociated sound, halfway between a moan and a coherent word, and Kirk's limbs tremble of their own accord. The sensation of movement sends a shiver straight through to McCoy's core. There is blood trickling from the corner of Kirk's mouth, and McCoy catches a curse in his throat as he sees it.

McCoy wraps one arm around Kirk's shoulders, lifts him from the floor, and leans together with him against the wall. The ship starts trembling again, and he reacts out of instinct to pull the injured man closer because he can think of nothing else to do. Determined, McCoy attempts to get to his feet with the captain, but fails, slipping on a floor that is thick with dust and debris and covered in blood.

"Help me out here, Jim."

Kirk's eyes swirl reflexively in the direction of the voice, but they are frighteningly vacant and distant. He seems to look at McCoy without really focusing on him before his head snaps back as he loses the strength to support himself. McCoy's arms reach out instinctively, clawing at Kirk's uniform to simply keep him upright.

"Jim." Only years of medical training can force his voice to remain level. "Jim, I need you to stay awake for me."

Kirk slumps, but McCoy can see his lips moving, attempting to form a word though his throat lacks the strength to make it. The doctor can read his lips. Kirk mouthes the doctor's epithet, _Bones,_ before consciousness leaves his body like a heavy weight from his chest, and he falls completely still.

A massive explosion rips the ship apart perhaps only a few decks below them. The floor beneath McCoy's feet trembles, and he can feel it reverberate through his bones, and he finds that, despite the thousands of other people on in danger on the _Enterprise,_ he can only bring himself to focus on Jim Kirk.

His hand supports the side of Kirk's face, and he traces an abrasion across the younger man's cheek.

"Jim." He moves his hand to the captain's shoulder, squeezing tightly because he can not bring himself to shake the man. "Dammit, don't do this!"

He knows that should not panic, because if there is one constant in this universe, it is that Jim Kirk, regardless of his body's intentions, will always find a way to survive. But the way the Jim feels now, limp and cold and _hollow _in his arms, sucks all the rationality from his body in a way he never thought possible.

He forces his hand to release Kirk's shoulder and slams it against the comm panel just above his head. How fate conspired to make them land within arms reach of it he will never comprehend, but he lunges at the buttons as if they are the last link to his sanity.

"Spock, you need to get us the hell outta here!"

"Doctor--"

The ship rattles and more debris rains down. McCoy cannot see for the smoke and the dust, but something large and metallic sweeps past his head, and he lunges away with Jim, pulling the latter close against his chest as another piece of the ceiling collides with the floor only inches from them both.

"--Attack--" and the communicator lapses into static.

"We've got a problem here, dammit!" He does not care whether or not his voice carries to the communicator or if the device is still functional. His scream is one of an inward frustration, of the futility of the situation, and the finality of death he can not control.

"Jim's hurt something fierce and you need to get us out of here before they blow the ship apart!"

Reverting to his native Southern drawl is something his does reflexively in times of stress. He can not hear the difference, but it adds a frightful, foreign edge to his voice.

The ship shudders again, and Jim makes a thready moan in his arms. His head lolls and all McCoy can see are the whites of his eyes before his entire body falls still again.

"Dammit, Spock! Now!"

McCoy hears a frantic ghost of a scream echo down the ruined corridor, and it is only after the communications panel vanishes amid a shower of sparks that he recognizes the voice as his own.

* * *

Medical bay is overwhelmed with the wounded and absent the presence of its Chief Medical Officer, but it is possible to detect the arrival of the latter to his post for the simple reason that Leonard McCoy is yelling and cursing loud enough to cut through the chaotic din.

The doors slide open to reveal a horrific sight, one that, for a moment, freezes all movement in the room.

Doctor McCoy is covered in blood, but none of it is his.

He is holding the crumpled and limp form of Captain Kirk, draped in his arms, and the latter is barely recognizable for the terrible injury at his hairline and the profuse amount of blood that is responsible for the stains on McCoy's clothing.

There are no extra hands to help him, for every member of his staff is currently engaged in triage and critical care. As much as the doctor wants to will it differently, there are injured men and women on the ship other than the dying man in his arms.

Nurse Chapel skitters past him, a hypospray and several bottles clutched in her hands. She looks at him, and her eyes go wide for only a moment. She is suddenly barking orders in a voice McCoy has never heard her use before. She all but throws the contents of her arms across the room to another nurse, and McCoy could kiss her for her ability to remain so stoic when he feels his powers of emotional restraint have suddenly become obsolete.

She looks at the captain, and says, in that neutral way of hers, "take him to the surgery room, doctor."

McCoy promptly ignores her attempt to help with the captain, because he could carry Jim forever if necessary. The young man feels weightless in his arms. But the suffocating weight of apprehension, one that he fears will never be lifted, falls heavy on his heart. It is this inward struggle that he must fight alone, and one he does not know if he has the strength to win.

_To Be Continued_


	2. Chapter II

First off, I apologize _profusely_ for the length between updates. My muse pretty much died, and for a few days I was convinced that this chapter was terrible and considered scrapping everything... Thankfully, some kind souls knocked some sense into my head, and I can safely say that the trouble has passed.

Second, I am back in classes again. This means that updates will be scattered. This is _not_ a hiatus, but production on all of my fics is going to take a hit.

This story was meant to be two chapters, but my muse took it in a completely different direction, so it is now a work in progress! Beguile gets credit for the beta and for her continued support during my funk, and Kira is a fantastic one-girl cheering section. :)

Finally, a HUGE thank you to everyone that reviewed, added, and alerted! My goodness, I did not expect such an outpouring for that first chapter. Enjoy!

**CHAPTER II**

At first Kirk thinks that he is hallucinating, because he is seeing things that simply do not make sense. He is sitting in the shuttlecraft, but everything around him seems muted and unusually monochrome. It is a strange condition of semi-consciousness, like being trapped somewhere between wakefulness and sleep.

His fingers ghost over the controls of the shuttlecraft and the vessel shudders in compliance, touching down in the receiving dock without a sound. He is suddenly standing by the hatch with no recollection of how he arrived there and is staring out into the semi-darkness of the landing bay.

His every sense is alert, hyperactive, but his brain seems unwilling to relinquish information in return. With an unusual feeling of _familiarity_, Kirk realizes that he is not experiencing these events for the first time.

He descends from the shuttlecraft and encounters a vaguely humanoid alien, but his adversary is a collection of mottled color, nearly featureless even from such a short distance. He feels that he should _know_ the face and its details, but his every attempt at recollection brings only a dull, throbbing ache to his temples.

The alien steps closer, but does not approach him directly.

"You are the man they call the captain."

It is not a question, but an icy statement, extremely effective in its delivery.

"Captain James T. Kirk of the _U.S.S Enterprise,"_ Kirk offers, simply because his brain has suddenly denied him any other coherent thought.

". . . the Federation," his adversary's voice breaks apart from an interference Kirk can not identify, and only parts of the sentence reach him with any clarity.

Kirk hesitates, unable to discern the mood from two words. "Yes. The United Federation of Planets."

There is a sound like an entire assembly of people moving at once, and a very large presence is suddenly looming very close to him. Kirk's eyes snap toward the shadow and find a much larger version of the alien he has already encountered. It has a knife clutched in one hand, and points the object menacingly in Kirk's direction.

"I must apologize," the other alien offers. "It is merely a precaution."

"A precaution for what?" Kirk's eyes freeze on the knife. Though small in the large alien's hands, it shines as brightly as a beacon of light. Its every detail is clear as crystal in this half-broken string of memories.

"We are not on terms with your . . . Federation. Your vessel is trespassing. You see why this is a problem, Captain?"

Kirk shifts his focus away from the hulking presence beside him.

"How can I be accused of intruding when I have no idea who you are?"

Kirk senses that the alien must have narrowed his eyes at him, if only for the reason that his skin begins to crawl and his heart rate quickens, not out of fear, but out of the irritation that precedes anger.

"Who are you?" Kirk repeats.

The alien replies to him, but its voice is lost as an echo in Kirk's ears. He can hear it, but his brain refuses to translate the vibrations into words.

_What?_

". . . I will be," the man waves his hand in the air as if searching for the word, "diplomatic with you."

"That's right?" Kirk offers, breathless. He has his hands clenched, fingernails digging into his palms in an effort to distract himself from the raging frustration. "And how is that?"

"Ah," the alien returns without enthusiasm. "I believe I misspoke. I mean that I will be _merciful."_

The word brings a forceful hand to Kirk's arm from the henchman beside him. Inhuman strength slams him against the side of the shuttlecraft with a force that blurs his vision. The shadow of the larger alien looms over him, more frightening for the fact that Kirk can not conjure the details of its face. His every iota is suddenly focused on the intense, white-hot pain rocketing down his arm. He can feel the warmth of his blood running in rivulets toward his fingertips, and grits his teeth against a scream.

"Enough," the commander offers with a glacial sense of urgency.

The grip on Kirk's arm loosens, and he slumps against the side of the shuttlecraft with an exhausted groan. His hand reaches for his injured arm, cupping the bleeding wound with his palm, and he winces against the contact.

"You do realize," Kirk offers after a few heavy breaths, "that you are holding hostage the captain of a Federation starship here on a diplomatic endeavor?"

He does not see the larger alien move beside him.

The creature possesses a speed that belies its size, and Kirk's breath hitches in surprise at the same moment that the alien encircles its hand around his neck. It pushes him against the shuttlecraft again, fingers tightening like a vice, and the knife, covered in _his blood, _dances menacingly in front of Kirk's eyes.

The commander's lips form a response to the question, but Kirk cannot hear anything save the ringing in his ears. His vision fractures and blurs, and he is dimly aware of clawing desperately against his captor's steady grip before consciousness leaves him.

* * *

McCoy is staring at the numbers and is trying to convince himself that Jim Kirk will make it through all this.

But simply glancing at the biofunction monitor indicates that Kirk's pulse is thready and that his respiration is weak. Though it seems impossible for a thousand points of light to posses human characteristics, the unsatisfactory values seem to mock the doctor's competence. McCoy stares at them, his face twisted in a scowl.

It is what the numbers can not tell him that is most disconcerting.

Jim's eyes. The pupils are completely blown, showing only minute rings of the purest blue against a background of black. It is an utterly unnatural description to apply to one Jim Kirk. His eyes could be many things—bright, livid, drunken, or, _hell,_ even _seductive—_but never dark, expressionless.

His brain activity readouts are patternless and wild. There are moments of nothing, an abyss in which McCoy inwardly fears his friend might be brain dead, before sudden and brief moments hysteria threaten to shatter the sensitive sensors on the machinery.

McCoy has never seen anything like this. Then again, Jim Kirk has a habit of bringing him in contact with many events he has never seen before, whether McCoy is willing and able to handle them or not.

He has Kirk on the surgery biobed, properly assessing the younger man's injured arm and trying to drown out the chaos filtering in from the next room, where it sounds more like a war being fought than an attempt at triage.

Another explosion shatters the silence somewhere very close. The lights in sickbay flicker. He can hear something shattering in the next room along with the unmistakable sound of colliding bodies. There are screams, echoes of disjointed words . . .

But he can no longer hear them.

His eyes are locked on the screen above Kirk's biobed, because every single one of the captain's vital signs are suddenly dropping faster than than the machine can keep time with them.

He hears himself asking Chapel for a hypospray. C_almly, _even _politely,_ asking her, because the trauma has robbed him of his ability to scream or to demand.

He plunges the hypospray into Kirk's neck, gripping the implement so tightly that his hands shake from the effort. His free hand finds its way to Kirk's shoulder, brushing against the bruised skin with a tenderness he could never put into thought or words. It is a motion born completely from his subconscious.

The _Enterprise_ lurches and cries, her shell and her insides screaming in unison as if with a human voice. A voluminous explosion echoes above the din, somehow larger than any of its predecessors. The ship continues to tremble for several seconds, knocking McCoy against the biobed, before all motion suddenly ceases.

With a heavy note of finality, everything falls silent.

McCoy steadies himself with one hand on the side of the biobed and the other still on Kirk's shoulder, and holds his breath against the attack he fears will resume.

The silence is so intense that all he can hear is the beating of his heart in his ears.

He releases his breath, his shoulders stooping, and chances a glance at Chapel. She is gripping the biobed with white knuckles, but her expression is reserved, and her attention is focused on the biomonitor. McCoy can see the numbers reflected in her wide and dark eyes.

Jim jerks suddenly beneath McCoy's fingers. The doctor's eyes snap back to the monitor, and relief rushes through his limbs as a tangible sensation.

The numbers have stopped their downward plunge, and though they are much more hesitant on the return, Jim's vital signs are slowly beginning to improve. McCoy redoubles his grip on the bare shoulder ever slightly, perhaps out of encouragement to his patient, perhaps out of reassurance to himself.

* * *

Once he has Jim stable again, McCoy has no choice but to lend his hand to the other members of the crew.

At the end of it all, he has no idea whether it has been six hours or six days.

He does know, however, that the attacks have long since ceased.

Disturbingly, this thought brings him little comfort.

He is standing next to Kirk's bed in the isolation room when crisp footsteps draw his attention away from the PADD at his arm.

"What are you doing here?"

McCoy does not mean to sound so accusatory, and, thankfully, the Vulcan never takes his outbursts in much regard. Spock merely raises his eyebrow ever so slightly in a manner that communicates more information than one of his twenty minute science dissertations.

"Don't you have, I don't know, a _ship_ to take care of, or something?"

"I have come to inquire as to the status of the Captain, doctor."

A flurry of memories resounds in McCoy's head at once, and he shudders inwardly as they are forced through. A darkened hallway, the distant calls of destruction that are suddenly not so distant anymore, the force of the ship lurching beneath his feet, flames and sparks and the torrential downpour of debris . . .

"Oh," he offers, half distracted.

"Our captors are requesting information on the captain's condition."

McCoy's attempt at a curse tapers off into a groan, and he buries his head in his hands.

"Captors? So they blow up half the damn ship, and now they're holding the whole thing hostage?"

"They insist that the captain is responsible for the death of one of their senior members and are demanding his return in exchange for our release."

"And how exactly are they . . . holding the ship hostage?"

"The _Enterprise_ is critically damaged, doctor. It will take some time until the ship is capable of warp."

McCoy sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose against the dull and throbbing ache in his head.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he speaks to himself, muffled, through his fingers.

"This is not a humorous situation, doctor."

Any coherent response McCoy thought to attempt is lost in a sputter of temporary rage. He raises his head, eyes snapping to the Vulcan's own, and glares at him.

"I am _not_ joking around, Spock." He annunciates each word with an icy clarity. "And if you even think you came down here to take Jim anywhere, you're out of your hobgoblin mind."

"I will do no such thing."

The rest of McCoy's retort quickly withers away in his throat under the Vulcan's penetrating gaze. It is the same expression that Spock _always _wears, but something, perhaps McCoy's wounded pride, makes it project as dark and threatening.

". . . You don't believe them do you?"

"I have no knowledge of the details of what happened to the captain while in their custody. However, if my personal assessment of the captain is of any merit, I would not consider him an individual to take life without warrant."

"Murder?" McCoy spits the word, disgusted. "Jim might have a short fuse, but he isn't an idiot."

"That is what I said, doctor," Spock returns, flatly.

The more pressing matters at hand chase away McCoy's sarcastic retort, and he resolves himself to staring mutely at the Vulcan.

"What is the Captain's condition?" Spock continues in response to McCoy's silence.

McCoy considers relaying the information in his usual medical jargon, but his brain tells him that he just does not care for that at the moment, because no matter how much he tries to objectify the situation with emotionless words gleaned from a textbook, it will not get the images out of his head.

"What do you want me to say, Spock? The force of the ship being hit nearly drove his head through the bulkhead, not to mention a multitude of hurts he was hiding from whatever those alien bastards did to him beforehand. The ceiling fell on him, for crying out loud. He's unconscious and I've tried everything I can, but it's a hell of a head wound if I've ever seen one. Jim's been hurt bad before, but this might be the worst that I've seen."

He hesitates for a moment, and adds, bitterly, "all we can do is wait."

Spock inclines his head toward the doctor, but his eyes are focused over McCoy's shoulder and fixated on the object of their discussion. The captain is utterly still, corpse-like and pale, a condition that is the complete antithesis of every adjective that Spock has hitherto come to associate with Jim Kirk.

"I trust you will not take this as a judgment upon your medical abilities, doctor," Spock offers, without taking his eyes from the captain, "but I believe it would be in the best interests of all parties involved for the captain to recover as soon as possible."

"You think I don't know that? I want to find out what happened as much as you do, but for all our medical technology, we can do nothing but sit here and rely on Jim's own constitution."

The Vulcan is motionless for a moment. His expression is, as always, unreadable.

"If I may say," he offers after an abnormal moment of hesitation, "I believe that the captain's constitution will prove quite advantageous in this situation."

McCoy glances over his shoulder, fixing his eyes on Kirk. "Getting in touch with your human side, Spock? Hope is a human emotion."

"It was merely an observation, doctor."

_To be continued._


End file.
